There Will Be No Tears?

On the news, a story about Auschwitz. A photo of the entrance and the sign Arbeit Macht Frei.
And I think, I’ve been there.

A decision, I will not cry. I know what to expect. The gruesome images of piles and piles of shoes, of hair. I’m familiar with these. I’ve taught this.

There will be no tears. I demand of my heart, no tears at Auschwitz

I am wrong.

At Majdanek, first. Entering the camp, the outskirts are mind-numbing. Apartment buildings and well-kept homes surround the grounds. If one didn’t know, this could be anyplace. Porches overlook the testimony of horror. It is
Poland today. What took place here serves as the backdrop for daily lives going
strong, for children tossing a ball. Never mind the screams of ashes right
around the corner.

Majdanek was a rough draft. A learning curve. The walls of the gas chambers must be shortened for maximum efficiency. The gas chambers themselves systematically moved closer to the crematoriums. Here, victims were unloaded; here, they changed; here, they were brutalized. And here, they perished. Our guide says: “Listen to the silence of their whispers.” In the stillness, I see only horror.

At the crematoriums, the SS built baths. The extreme heat made for wonderful saunas. At the crematorium, Kaddish is recited in a loud, beautiful and pained voice.

There are tears. Everyone cries.

I demand of my heart, no tears at Auschwitz. The entrance has a gift shop, a Chinese eatery. Postcards. I turn away. There will not be tears.

Following the train tracks, I enter. By one cattle car, Israeli soldiers are gathered, the flag of Israel not blowing in the windless, scorching-hot day, but held proudly. How ironic. How beautiful. In the depth of hell, Jewish pride remains intact.

The hair—heaps and heaps of it, now faded brownish gray from age. The shoes. Little slippers worn by babies, a woman’s high heel, a work boot. Jews were a commodity. Everything could be used, reused, turned into something else, something better. Something German. There are no tears.

The latrines—slabs of concrete with perfectly centered holes and buckets. I bite my lip. The mountains of keys and shoe polish. Only those truly expecting to unlock them, lock their doors. Suitcases with names carefully painted on. To locate them when we leave. Not knowing where they were going, still they took shoe polish. One needs to be their best for Shabbat. Not knowing where they are going, yet there must be Shabbat.

There are tears.

On the wall of one of the women’s barracks, a long-ago faded clock drawn by hands that ached for some sort of reminder that the world still moves.

Different kinds of stories of heroes.

Those who attempted the impossible and resisted as long asThe pain cannot be grasped
possible. Those who clawed for a piece of bread, only to give it to a pregnant
woman they did not know. A grandmother who sang to the child in her arms during
the last millisecond of life.

Different kinds of heroes.

Warsaw had been flattened by the Nazis after the Resistance. But Krakow remains. On the cobbled stone streets, one can so clearly picture little kids playing, mothers calling from open windows: “Watch your brother, come inside! Tatte will be home any minute.” The Jews that were. The lives extinguished. Krakow burns with ghosts.

There are tears. For all that was. For all that was slaughtered. For the pain that cannot be grasped or imagined.

We do not comprehend. We cannot. Some things, are completely un-understandable.

Orly Fuerst was born in Israel and raised in the US. She has a Master's in Education, and spends most of her day chasing her six kids and wishing she had more time to write, while dreading the day when she will no longer be needed to chase her kids.

My dad was stationed in Ansbach during the Occupation. He toured one of the camps. He told me the same thing that Jerry Salinger, who was in France first, then in Germany as an interrogator during the Liberation of the camps, did -- That you would never forget the smell in the ovens, as long as you lived. It will linger with you, forever.

Now, they are trying to rewrite history, as if it never happened. But I remember the same look, on both of their faces, when they told me about it. So, it happened...

A few years ago I attended a holocaust rememberance day talk at a London synagogue, given by a lady who had survived Auschwitz. The speaker had been a little girl then and had watched the Natzi's execute her mum in the snow while she stood on tiptoe and watched through a little window. She had to go back there as an old woman to validate whether it was a sick nightmare or had it really happened to her. I sat in stunned silence as I listened that night, as she recounted so many other terrible things that happened - she never waivered just told her story. Thank you for sharing your story and the other people here who have commented.
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jimdallasApril 26, 2017

trust is a hard word to say....i personally have walked silently in graduating shock thru dachau and here in auschwitz it is so much worse...but trust we must, that moshiach will totally wipe away the tears that beg to be cried now...yes bring forth the answer..moshiach now!
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BrianLos AngelesApril 28, 2017

in response to jim:

Why something like the holocaust?
The Jews, among many others, serve as both teacher and lesson for the world, for the universe, even for God. Not to justify the worlds brutality, but everything that happens--from circumcision to the holocaust--serves as a lesson.

Sometimes it is too much to understand. Too clomplicated. For God. Too brutal. For Human. Fortunately the soul lives on beyond the body and the life. And upon Moshiac, all the tears will be washed away.
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Br Graham-MichoelWellingtonApril 26, 2017

In 1983 I was manager of the Auschwitz in England exhibition held in the East End of London (UK). I asked the 'designers'how I might live with this exhibition for its duration. There response was wise: do your own walk through it on the last day. ( I was already very familiar with most of the exhibits ). I waited until the last visitor had left, and then walked through the corridors of fences and barbed wire, determined, in that very British manner, to keep a stiff upper lip. It sort of worked until I reached the pile of children's shoes and toys - and then my heart broke. I remember well the flood of tears and the surprising support of the security guard - a memory that is regularly with me these 34 years. And the tears still come. I can relate a little to Orly's emotions. Indeed I can! Thank you for sharing this article.
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JeffSan Pedro, CAApril 25, 2017

When I visited a similar place I did cry. Your story was moving and brought tears to my eyes once again.
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B"HAfter we were married, my wife had recurring vivid dreams of being chased by Nazi soldiers. Her grandparents were all from Poland and most of her family perished in the Holocaust. My wife has never been to this G-d forsaken country and we have no plans to visit, although we have been to many countries in Europe. We avoid Poland and Germany. Arbeit Macht Frei....I feel my wife's soul has been there too.Outstanding article. Yasher Koach!
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